Will and Mike holding hands when they were younger because they were each otherâs playground buddy. Will and Mike holding hands until one of them pulls away, looks around and makes the call that itâs too kiddy to do that, too weird for a reason they cant place, Will only just starting to notice that the whispering from adults, the names he doesnât quite understand yet, are directed towards him. Will and Mike brushing hands at the movies or passing food to each other that summer in â85, where neither know whoâs hand inched closer but both moving away like theyâd been burned. Will and Mike in the spring of â86, in the van where the space is so cramped but every inch between them feels like a galaxy apart, and thereâs an unplaced pit in the stomach, an electric brush of the fingers, the passing of a painting, digging the hole deeper as a bandaid rips in two. Mike and Will, moments before Will goes down to the Upside Down, Mikeâs death grip on Willâs hand, knowing he canât ask Will not to go, but making him promise heâll come back alive. Will and Mike after itâs all over, making eye contact from across the way and giving each other a soul crushing hug, neither of them commenting on the way Mike has his fingers wrapped around Willâs hands, that are still shaking. Mike and Will in Mikeâs basement playing video games, just the two of them, something built between them for months, for longer, finally spilled over when they graze pinkies, when Mikeâs hand hovers over so theyâre palm to palm against the couch, and Will turns his hand over tentatively to interlock their fingers. When thereâs a beat of silence as they look at each other, searching for assurance and holding back smiles as they half-heartedly try and get back to the game, unwilling to lodge their hands away from each other. When the only thing separating them now is the place where their knuckles and wrists meet, and only there. When theyâve found their way back home to each other after theyâve learned how unbearable it is to live without the other.